Learning to Fly
by Shelly
Summary: It was never his intention to hurt her. And, yet, she was sitting on the edge of the tub, his bathrobe consuming her small frame, tears cascading down her cheeks. He didn't know how to fix this. Post "The End in the Beginning."
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: If you like the way EitB ended, raise your hand. Yeah. Me neither. This is based on what Hart Hanson said about Booth's "amnesia" when he was up to his ears with damage control. Special thanks to my daughter (who didn't want it to end) and to Bohemian Fling for her awesome beta skills. This is Post-ep, fluff and angst, and will undoubtedly be AU once season five gets underway._

* * *

**Part One**

Booth blinked, trying desperately to hold on to the high of hearing that he was going to be a father. The light in Bren's eyes when she'd told him . . . that was something he would take with him to his grave. He'd made a vow, right then and there, to never let that happiness fade, no matter the cost.

It *was* fading, though, and he struggled, reaching for it with outstretched hands, trying to maintain his hold. He noticed, too, that the harder it was to hold on to that feeling, the more his head hurt. The lights were too bright.

He let out a breath, a groan, as bits and pieces of two lives started to collide. Was it all a dream? "Such a weird dream," he said, his voice sounding foreign to his own ears. That was when he heard her, saw her face.

"Booth," she sighed, standing over him, her hands on his arm. She was still talking but he wasn't following what she was saying.

"So real," he said, as she continued on, saying something about surgery and a coma.

Who was she? Two lives collided and intersected.

"It felt so real."

Was she a friend or a lover? A partner or a wife?

"Who are you?" he whispered aloud, instantly regretting his words when she gasped and her face crumpled in confusion.

"Bren?" a woman's voice echoed in the room, allowing him a momentary reprieve, time to try and figure things out.

Bren sucked in a breath and stood up. He turned his eyes to the woman standing in the doorway. He knew her. Angela.

"He's awake?" she whispered, a smile lighting her face.

Bren nodded. "Yes, he just woke up. Could you get the doctor, please?"

Angela nodded and quickly hurried down the corridor, leaving them alone, again.

"Bren," he repeated, and she turned her attention back to him, but before he could speak, another voice interrupted.

"Dr. Brennan. Angela says Agent Booth is awake?"

Dr. Brennan. Agent Booth. Bones. Not Bren. Not his wife. His partner. Puzzle pieces were quickly snapping into place, leaving him dizzy and disoriented.

"Yes," she replied, "but he seems a little confused." His eyes never left her, and he clearly saw her features shift as she buried the sadness and masked it in cloak of professionalism. "I'm sure it's an after-effect of the anesthetic. The latest brain scans showed no signs of swelling, so I'm not concerned about pressure or damage."

His eyes drifted to the man standing in the doorway. "Sweets," he croaked. At the sound of his name, a wide grin broke out on the man's face. "You look like hell."

Still smiling broadly, the young man took a step into the room. "It's good to see you awake, Agent Booth."

Booth licked his lips and lifted his right hand, lifting his partner's hand in the process. "Please tell me you didn't let her stay here."

Sweets glanced up at Brennan and shrugged. "I think you know as well as I do that no one *let's* Dr. Brennan do anything."

Booth nodded and squeezed her fingers. She gently squeezed his in return.

Just then the doctor walked in, shooed everyone out, and the recovery began.

* * *

The only way she was able to get him released from the hospital was to push her weight around. It didn't hurt that she knew a couple of the hospital's board members and was able to call in a few favors. She felt that he would recover faster in more comfortable surroundings and presented it to him as such, one week after he had opened his eyes.

"But someone will need to stay with you to keep an eye on you for the first week or two," she was explaining. "You really should be under inpatient observation for another week, but I think you're progressing nicely, and getting into more familiar surroundings can only help."

They hadn't talked about his initial confusion when he woke up. She didn't want to know why, for a just moment, he seemed to not know who she was. She also didn't want to talk about the four days when she sat by his bedside, watching him sleep, willing him to wake up, thinking thoughts that she would rather not ever see the light of day.

"I appreciate it, Bones." He was sitting up, the hospital bed inclined, his eyes clear and alert.

"I know how much you don't like hospitals," she continued with a shrug. When he didn't say anything in response, she said, "I've made some calls and have found a couple of exceptionally qualified live-in nurses who can stay with you for the first week or longer if you need them." She reached into her bag and pulled out a file folder. "I brought their resumes in for you to look over so you can make the final decision."

"What about you?"

A simple question, really, and she paused, considering her answer. Of course she had thought about staying with him. She simply didn't trust anyone else to take care of him properly while he was recovering, but she wasn't about to make that suggestion. "Me?" she asked, trying sound as neutral as possible.

"There's no one I trust more," he said, matter-of-factly.

She smiled at that and put the folder back in her bag. "You think I'll let you get away with more than a professional nurse will," she teased.

"You? Never." He winked at her and smiled that smile of his that made him appear to be a playful little boy. "Besides," he continued, reaching for the pudding cup on his lunch tray, "you already know about most of my bad habits, so I won't have to be on my best behavior."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Fine," she said, as if she was conceding a point and letting him get his way. She hoped that he couldn't tell that, really, inside, she was dizzy with relief.

* * *

Three days later, they were sitting on the couch. He was flipping channels on the television, and she was typing something on her laptop. He figured she was trying to work on her next novel, because she had that look on her face, sort of a cross between concentration and confusion, like she was in shock.

The knock at the door startled them both, but she quickly recovered, saving and closing her file and setting her laptop on the coffee table before getting up to answer the door. He grinned at her transparent attempt to keep him from reading her work and he wondered, for a moment, what she was writing about.

He heard a man's voice from the foyer and recognized it as Sweets' a moment before he walked into the room, a step behind Bones.

"Sweets," he said by way of greeting.

"Agent Booth," the man replied. "How are you feeling?"

"Better every day," Booth replied.

Brennan spoke up then. "Dr. Sweets stopped by to visit for a little bit so, if you don't mind, I think I'm going to run to the store. You're low on a few things, and I know Dr. Sweets will be able to handle . . ." she trailed off, hesitant to finish her thought.

"He won't let me hurt myself," Booth offered and smiled. "It's okay, Bones. Go ahead. I promise I won't do anything crazy while you're gone."

"I wasn't implying that . . .," she began but stopped when Booth raised a hand.

"I wasn't implying that you were," he said. "I was teasing. Go. You need a break."

She smiled and nodded. "I won't be long," she said to Sweets, then, "Is there anything special you want?" to Booth.

A million thoughts went through his head, none of them appropriate to the situation, so he settled on, "Orange juice? The pulpy kind."

She nodded, picked up her purse and keys, and was gone.

"Well," Sweets said, as he settled himself in the armchair opposite from Booth.

Booth raised his eyebrows, waiting for the young man to continue. When he didn't, Booth settled back into the cushions and turned off the television. "Can I talk to you, off the record?"

Sweets seemed taken aback by the question, and it took him a second to respond. "Um . . . sure."

"I mean it," Booth continued. "This is completely off the record. None of this ends up in some report, and you sure as hell don't tell Bones." He glared at the young man and hoped that he was still able to pull off menacing with a shaved and bandaged head.

Sweets swallowed but nodded. "Absolutely. This is between you and me. It won't leave this room."

Booth nodded but hesitated. He wasn't quite sure where to begin. He hadn't been planning on saying anything to the psychologist, ever, but the opportunity had presented itself and who was he to question fate?

"I had this incredibly vivid dream while I was out," he began. "And before you start in with Jungian or Freudian theories and symbolism, I do know that dreams are sometimes just dreams." Off of Sweets' look, Booth rolled his eyes and said, "Don't look so surprised. I read."

Sweets nodded and said, "Go ahead."

"This dream, it was so . . . real. So much so that I wasn't sure when I woke up if I was still dreaming." Booth paused, but Sweets was quiet, waiting for him to continue. "Everyone was in this dream. You, Bones, all the Squints. Except everyone was different."

"How were you different?" Sweets asked, seemingly pleased that he'd been included in 'everyone.'

Booth chuckled. "I was the owner of a night club called The Lab. Co-owner, really."

"Dr. Brennan was your partner," Sweets said, drawing conclusions, Booth knew, from reality.

"She was my wife," Booth corrected. He looked up at Sweets to find him smiling.

"Does this bother you?" Sweets asked. He was leaning forward in his seat, his elbows resting on his knees, fingertips touching.

Booth thought about it for a moment. "No," he answered, after he realized that now was the time for complete honesty, if ever there was one. "It was . . . it was great." On this admission, he felt relief, as if keeping these feelings inside were weighing down his soul. "The thing is . . . I keep having the dream, almost every night since I woke up. And I've slipped a few times and almost called Bones 'Bren'."

"Bren?" Sweets smiled. "I don't think that's too unusual. Angela calls her Bren all the time."

"I *never* call her Bren." Booth sighed. "Except once, when I woke up and I thought she was my wife. There were a few minutes there, when I was just coming out from under and everything was foggy, you know?" Sweets nodded. "I was confused. I asked her who she was."

"Oh."

Booth looked up to see the concern on the psychologist's face. "What?"

"Have you explained that to her?"

"How?" Booth asked. "How do I tell her that it wasn't that I didn't know who she was - I didn't know what . . . version . . . of her she was? That opens up a whole new level of 'I do not want to go there,' you know what I mean?"

Sweets nodded. "I can see your point, but . . . look, this is me talking here. Guy to guy." Booth rolled his eyes, which Sweets, as usual, ignored. "She cares about you."

"Of course she does," Booth interrupted. "We're partners."

"You're a hell of a lot more than partners," Sweets gently contradicted. "If you were partnered with, say, Agent Brockton, would you have stayed by his bedside for four days straight, waiting for him to wake up?"

Booth considered this and had to concede. "No, but I would do it for Bones."

"Right," Sweets said. "And she did that for you. And she's here now. What you two have goes so much deeper than a partnership or a friendship. You have a connection. A deep connection. Your subconscious knows this and, I think, so do you."

Booth mulled over Sweets' words. He was right. If it had been Bones in his place, it would have taken an army to get him to leave her side. He couldn't say the same about anyone else he'd ever been partnered with.

"What do I do?" he asked.

The front door opened before Sweets could answer. Booth looked at his watch, surprised at how quickly the time seemed to have passed. Off of his warning glare, the subject was quickly dropped and the young man jumped up to help Bones with the groceries, leaving Booth alone to think.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

"How are you holding up, Sweetie?"

Brennan looked around Booth's dining room and sighed. "I'm fine," she replied, an automatic response.

"Good," Angela said, her voice slightly tinny over the cordless phone. "Now, really, how are you?"

Brennan rolled her eyes. "Really, Angela, I'm fine. I'm not the one who had brain surgery eighteen days ago." As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.

"Bren."

"Angela, I really don't want to talk about this right now." She was only half listening to her friend. One ear was honed in on the sounds coming from the bathroom where Booth was taking a shower.

"I'm worried about you, hon. You've hardly taken a moment for yourself since Booth's surgery."

"That's not true, Angela. I take plenty of moments for myself. Besides, Booth needs me." She looked at the vase on the table and noticed that the water was sloshing. It was then that she realized that her leg was bouncing, causing the table to shake. She quickly stopped, refusing to acknowledge the nervous tic for what it was . . . a nervous tic.

"How did his appointment go?"

Brennan paused for a second, momentarily disoriented by the quick subject change. "He's making incredible progress," she said, warming to the subject. "At this rate he should be back to 100% in just a few weeks."

"That's fantastic," Angela enthused. "So you'll be moving out?"

"Um, yeah, I guess." Brennan picked at the edge of a napkin. "We haven't really discussed it."

"Hmmm."

Brennan opened her mouth to ward off whatever Angela was about to say when a loud crash sounded from the bathroom. Brennan was on her feet in a second, the phone call forgotten. "Booth!"

She hit the bedroom and skidded to a stop at the bathroom door; grabbing the knob and whipping open the door without a second thought.

"Bones!" Booth was naked, save for a towel tied around his waist. "What the hell?"

Brennan's heart was hammering in her chest, a thousand scenarios running through her head, all of them ending with Booth lying on the floor, unconscious. "I heard a crash," she answered as soon as she was able to catch her breath. "I . . . I heard a crash."

Booth shook the can of shaving cream he held in his hand. "I knocked the shaving cream into the sink," he explained. "What did you think happened?"

"I don't know," she hedged. "It startled me, that's all." As the adrenalin left her system, she started to feel shaky and a little nauseated.

"You're pale," Booth remarked. He put the shaving cream down and turned her around, leading her toward the bed. "Sit down," he ordered. "Put your head between your knees and breathe."

"I know how to keep myself from passing out, Booth," she grumbled, feeling more than a little embarrassed. He was, after all, standing in front of her in nothing more than a towel.

"I know you do, but you're scaring me, so humor me, okay?"

She took in a few shaky breaths and concentrated on controlling her heartbeat. She felt the bed shift as he sat next to her, and then his hand was on her back, rubbing light circles. "I'm okay," she insisted. "Please, you can finish getting dressed. I'm fine."

"You're exhausted," he argued.

So many things were running through her mind. Angela was right, she had to admit. She'd not spared a thought for anyone but Booth ever since she'd first thought there was something wrong with him. Since then, her life had been a roller coaster of fears and insecurities. "I should go," she said.

"You don't have to leave," Booth said. "Just lie down for a little bit. I can close the bathroom door. You won't bother me."

"No," she argued, sitting up slowly, "I mean I should go home."

"Why?"

She turned to look at him and found that she couldn't read his expression, at all. "Booth, you heard the doctor today. You're going to be fine. You don't need me here hovering over you twenty-four hours a day."

His lip quirked at that, and he looked around the room before settling back on her. "Maybe I like you hovering over me twenty-four hours a day. Did that ever occur to you?"

Brennan snorted. "Right."

"Look," Booth said, placing his hand over hers. "It's late. Why don't you stay one more night, and we'll worry about this tomorrow. It's been a long day and you're tired."

She nodded. She was tired, and it had been a long day. "Okay," she agreed. "I can do that."

"I'm done in here," he continued. "Why don't you take a shower, relax, and put on something comfortable. I'll order a pizza. Okay?"

Everything he was suggesting sounded wonderful, and she wondered how they'd gone from her taking care of him to the exact opposite in mere seconds.

* * *

Booth had dressed while Brennan collected her toiletries and something to wear from her suitcase in the guest room. He made her promise to not lock the bathroom door. She rolled her eyes and promised. Honestly, how much trouble did he think she could get into in his bathroom?

She looked at herself in the mirror, still slightly foggy from Booth's shower, and really examined herself. She did look tired but no more so than she usually looked after a few days with a difficult case. She appreciated her friends, but sometimes they could overreact.

She turned on the faucet and undressed while the water warmed; testing it a couple of times before finding the right balance between comfortable and scalding. She stepped under the spray and let the water soak her hair, imagining that it was rinsing away all of her doubts and fears.

Rationally, she knew that was impossible, but she didn't care. In her mind's eye, all of her concerns were washing down the drain. She tried to turn off her mind and make all of her thoughts go away, too, just for little while, but she kept coming back to the terror she'd felt when Booth had dropped the shaving cream.

She laughed at her foolishness and wondered what he must think of her. Still, images of him, laying on the floor or, worse, twisted at odd angles in the tub, gnawed at the corners of her mind. Statistics on accidents in the home tumbled through her thoughts, playing on an endless loop. She shook them off and reached for her shampoo only to realize that she'd left it on the counter.

"Damn," she muttered, then looked around. Booth, of course, had shampoo, and she figured he wouldn't mind too much if she used just a little. She picked up the bottle and squeezed a dollop into her hand then started working it into her hair.

As she worked up a lather, the scent filled her senses; a scent that was undeniably Booth. Her breath caught in her chest and, suddenly, she started to cry.

She couldn't explain it. It was as if all the fear, confusion, and pain that she'd boxed up while he was in the hospital had finally broken free.

She cried for him. She cried for the look on his face, scared but so brave, before they sedated him. She cried for the black pit of fear that had rested in her belly during the surgery and then during those endless days before he woke up.

She cried for the thoughts she had refused to acknowledge like, "what if he doesn't make it?" and "what if I hadn't caught it when I did?" and "why didn't I catch this sooner?" She cried for how scared Parker had been and how relieved he'd been when she told him that his dad would be okay.

Most of all, she cried for how much she cared about him and how scared she was to leave. She didn't want to admit it to anyone, much less to herself, but she was terrified that something would happen to him, and she wouldn't be there to help him when it did.

She rinsed her hair and shut off the water, tears still falling as she grabbed a towel and tried to dry off. She was just starting to calm down when she heard a tap at the door.

"Bones? Are you okay?"

And the floodgates opened again.

* * *

Booth had ordered the pizza and was just settling back to watch a little television when he first heard it. He couldn't be sure, but it sounded like Bones was crying. Concerned, he got up and walked to his bedroom. The closer he got, the more he was certain. She wasn't crying; she was breaking down.

He hesitated at the door. It felt like he was intruding on something very private; something that Bones wouldn't want anyone to know about. But he was worried about her. She'd been by his side since before his surgery, and he knew that she wasn't quite right. He had thought that she was just tired, but now . . .

The crying seemed to quiet, and the water shut off, so he waited, wondering, still, if he should go back out to the living room and pretend he hadn't heard a thing. Then he thought back to what Sweets had told him earlier in the week.

_"__What you two have goes so much deeper than a partnership or a friendship. You have a connection. A deep connection.__"_

Booth knew he couldn't ignore this, so he took a deep breath and tapped on the door, "Bones? Are you okay?"

At his words, she began crying again, in earnest. "Shit," he whispered, kicking himself for upsetting her further. "Bones, I need to know that you're okay."

He waited a minute, listening while she got herself under control. Finally, she said, "I'm fine."

He shook his head and then rested it on the door. "No, Bones. You're not fine. Obviously there's something wrong. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Then a sniffle. "I don't."

He stood there for a moment, wondering if he should let it go and accept her answer or if he should press her. He thought back to all that she had done for him and made up his mind.

"I'm coming in," he announced. He waited a beat to see if she was going to jump up and lock the door. There was some shuffling from inside the bathroom but the door remained unlocked. When he was certain he'd given her enough time to stop him if she wanted to, he opened the door.

His robe engulfed her and he almost cracked a smile at how small and fragile she looked, except he knew she'd kick his ass for even thinking the thought, much less giving it voice. Her eyes were red and swollen, and she looked pitiful. He knew that it had cost her something to let him see her like this.

She broke his heart.

Softly, he said, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

She shook her head in the negative.

"Bones, I think you need to talk to someone. If not me, then what about Sweets?" At that her head shot up, and she glared at him, which he considered an improvement over the tears. "Okay, then it's me," he said and he leaned on the counter, looking down at her.

She wiped her nose with the sleeve of his robe and said, "I don't want to talk about it, at all, thank you."

"Then why did you let me in?" he asked. "You could have locked the door."

She sniffed and said, "You just would have kicked in the door, and that much physical exertion isn't advisable at this stage in your recovery."

"Oh, for the love . . ." he swiped a hand down his face and counted to ten. "Look, obviously something has upset you. What kind of friend would I be if I ignored that?"

She looked down at her lap and smoothed the robe over her knees. "I'm okay, Booth. Really. I am. I think I just needed to let it out, that's all."

"Let what out?" he asked, though he had an idea what she meant. He still wanted to hear her say it.

She refused to meet his eyes. "Are you going to let this drop? Because the pizza is going to get here soon, and I prefer my pizza hot, not cold."

"No," he said, probably a bit louder than he should have, though when her head snapped up in surprise, it was gratifying to know that he'd gotten her attention. "I'm not going to let it drop. Do you want to know why?" She just stared so he continued. "Because you wouldn't let it drop if the shoe was on the other foot, and you damn well know it."

Her face crumpled at that, and a fresh tear ran down her cheek. She swiped at it, angrily. "You want to know? Fine, I'll tell you."

"Good," he practically shouted.

"I'm scared," she said, coolly and calmly, her voice maddeningly steady though more tears flowed. "I'm terrified that something is going to happen to you, and I'm not going to be able to stop it. You work, every day, with people who wouldn't think twice about killing you in cold blood, and I understand that's what you do - it's who you are."

"Bones," he started, but she held up a hand, silencing him.

"And I know that's why you've drawn this line, this . . . boundary that we're not supposed to cross. But it's getting harder and harder for me to stay on my side of the line, Booth. Your surgery wasn't because of a bullet this time. This wasn't job related, and it still could have killed you. I could die tomorrow."

"Don't say that," he growled, but she continued on, undeterred.

"I could get hit by a bus, or fall down the stairs, and I never would have had the chance to tell you how much I care for you, because of that damn line we're not supposed to cross. You want to know why I ran in here earlier? I thought you'd slipped. I thought I was going to open this door and find you unconscious, or worse. And that scares the hell out of me, Booth. Because I don't want to care this much, but I can't stop."

It was never his intention to hurt her. And, yet, she was sitting on the edge of the tub, his bathrobe consuming her small frame, tears cascading down her cheeks. He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, unsure of what to do next. His instincts screamed for him to reach out to her, but he was afraid that would only scare her away.

He didn't know how to fix this.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

Brennan breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth, trying desperately to maintain some semblance of control after her outburst. She couldn't believe that she'd said those things to Booth, and neither could he, judging by the look on his face.

She stood and walked past him muttering, "I'm sorry," as she passed. She was already in his guest room with her suitcase open when she heard him behind her.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice soft and unsure.

"I'm packing," she replied as she shoved another article into the case.

"The pizza will be here in a minute. You can't leave until you eat something."

And then she heard him walk away. She paused and closed her eyes, cringing when the doorbell rang and she heard him conversing easily with the delivery boy. She'd had a meltdown. A decidedly very-much-not-like-her-at-all meltdown and she was kicking herself over the things she'd said. But he wasn't kicking her out, and he wasn't making a fuss. She knew that they were going to have to talk about it at some point, and the pizza smelled divine, so she cursed herself and got dressed.

When she walked into the dining room, he was standing in the kitchen, looking in the refrigerator. "I'm pouring you a glass of wine," he said, and she knew it was a statement and not a question. The pizza was already on the table, plates set, so she sat down in what had become her chair and pulled out a slice for him and a slice for her.

She felt him behind her and stilled when he placed the glass of wine in front of her. Then he sat down and closed his eyes, offering grace for his meal. She waited until he mouthed 'Amen.' "Booth . . . I,"

He pointed to her plate. "Not yet. Let's eat first, and then we'll talk."

Brennan nodded, thankful for this short reprieve and the opportunity to try and get her thoughts back in order. Halfway through their meal, she remembered Angela. "Damn."

Booth looked up and raised an eyebrow in question.

"I was on the phone with Angela when I heard the commotion in the bathroom. I should call her back and let her know that everything's okay." She stood and picked up the phone which he must have placed on the bar when he was setting the table. As she dialed she said with a light laugh, "I'm surprised she's not knocking at the door, as worked up as I was."

Booth just smiled but didn't say a word. After two rings, Angela picked up. "Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine," Brennan assured her. "Booth dropped something and I overreacted. I wanted to let you know so you wouldn't worry."

"Oh," Angela sighed. "Thank goodness."

"We're eating dinner right now," Brennan continued. "Can I call you later?"

Angela agreed, so Brennan hung up and returned to her seat. She picked up her glass and swirled the contents around before raising it to her lips, finishing her wine. "Can I talk now?" she asked as she put the glass down and nudged her plate away from the edge of the table.

Booth nodded. "Sure."

She took a deep breath before saying, "I want to apologize for my outburst. It was childish and unnecessary. My only excuse is that I'm tired and wasn't thinking straight. Will you forgive me?" She looked up to find him staring at her. "What?"

He wiped his mouth, took a drink of his water, and sat back in his chair. "Are you serious?"

"What would I gain by not being serious?" She sat back in her chair and they stared at each other across the table for a moment.

"There's nothing to forgive," he finally said. "In fact, I should be asking for your forgiveness."

Brennan considered his statement then shook her head, "I don't understand."

Booth smiled and stood, holding out his hand to her as he walked by. "Come with me," he instructed. She took his hand and followed him to the living room. He pointed to the couch, so she sat and waited while he looked out the window and organized his thoughts.

"I had the strangest dream after the operation," he began as he turned around and crossed the room. He took a seat across from her and continued, "I don't know if it was an effect of the drugs, or not, but it was so real that I've had a hard time forgetting it."

Brennan wondered why he felt that this was the time to tell her about this. She remembered what he had said when he woke up from the anesthetic. How could she forget? _'Such a weird dream . . . so real . . . it felt so real . . . who are you?'_

"I know you're wondering what this has to do with anything," he said, and she smiled. "Trust me."

"I remember you saying something about a dream when you woke up," she admitted.

"Then I'm sure you remember that I asked who you were." He paused, waiting for a reaction from her, watching her carefully.

Brennan nodded. "Yes, I remember. I was worried for a moment that you might have some sort of short term memory loss, but then Angela came in, and then Sweets, and you seemed okay after that." She hoped that she was presenting the facts as unemotionally as possible. She didn't want him to know how much that one question had cut her.

Booth studied her before saying, "Let me tell you about my dream, and then I think you'll understand why I was confused when I woke up."

She nodded and he began. She listened as he set the stage: a night club with all of their friends and colleagues involved in some way, even Zack. He explained how it was their night club and that they had been married.

"Married?" she asked with a small smile. "Us?"

He nodded and shrugged. "It's not that much of a leap for my subconscious," he explained. "We spend more time together than most married couples and, honestly, you're the most important woman in my life."

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks and realized that she was blushing as this admission. "Perfectly logical," she agreed. "Go on."

He went on to tell the story of how a hit man had been killed in the club and how all of the evidence seemed to point to the two of them as the killers. "The staff was covering for us, for me, though," he said with a smile. "It was strange."

"Not really." Brennan scooted forward on the couch, leaning a little closer to where Booth was sitting. "Our friends would defend us to the ends of the earth. I think we're both aware of that. They admire and respect you. From what you've said, in your dream, the hit man was there to kill your wife. I know I wouldn't be surprised if you were to react that way, and I know that we would all try to protect you under those circumstances."

He opened his mouth to say something, paused, and then asked, "Are you saying that you would willingly obstruct justice to protect me if I were to kill someone who was trying to kill my wife?"

His brow was furrowed, in confusion or amusement she couldn't tell, but she didn't see what was so confusing or amusing about the hypothetical. "In this situation, your wife is me. I know that you've gone to great lengths, in this reality, to protect me, and we're not married. Logically, knowing your feelings about marriage, I can deduce that your actions would be escalated if our bond was, in your eyes, stronger."

He seemed to accept this explanation, but he was still looking at her strangely. She wished Sweets was there to help her read him. When he didn't continue, she prompted, "Go on, I want to know who the killer was."

He grinned and nodded, continuing his narrative, concluding with the revelation that Jared had taken care of the hit man in order to protect her. "Like I said, it was so very real. When I woke up, I had a hard time distinguishing the dream you from the real you. I knew who you were; I just didn't know who you were. Does that make sense?"

Brennan sat in silence, soaking that in. "While your sentence doesn't make any sense at all, I know what you mean by it," she finally said. "You weren't sure if I was your wife, or your partner."

"Exactly!" Booth leaned back in his arm chair and smiled.

"What I don't understand," Brennan continued, "is why you're telling me this now."

Booth groaned. "You really don't understand, do you?"

She rose to her feet and walked over to the window, looking out into the night. "I'm guessing that I don't," she admitted. "And I don't like that."

"What I meant," he said, rising to his feet and walking over to stand behind her, "is that I was having trouble reconciling what your role in my life was because, no matter what that role is, my feelings for you are the same."

She looked at his reflection in the window and met his eyes. Her heart fluttered in her chest as she finally understood what he was trying to tell her. He cared about her as much as he would a significant other. He actually thought of her as his significant other.

"So, what I'm saying, Bones," and he placed his hand on her shoulder, still watching her in the reflection of the glass, "is that I understand what you mean when you say that you care so much that it scares you, because it kind of scares me, too."

* * *

He had purposely left out the part about the baby. Watching her now, he was sure that had been the right thing to do.

"Why are you scared?" she asked then, her voice small and quiet.

His hand was still on her shoulder; worried that if he broke contact with her she might run. Why was he scared? How could he put this in to words that she would understand? "You know you're my best friend, right?" Off of her nod he continued, "I don't want to lose that."

She turned, then, to face him. His hand dropped to his side. "Why would you lose that? We're a team. Just because the dynamic might be changing doesn't mean that we should lose each other."

He couldn't meet her eyes so he looked around the room, anywhere but at her. "I didn't expect that," he admitted.

"I don't know what you mean," she said.

He met her eyes again and smiled. "I mean that I didn't expect you to react this way."

She placed her hands on her hips and tipped up her chin - a challenge. "How was I supposed to react?"

"Well," he began, taking a step back, "since we're being honest here. I thought you'd be halfway out the door by now."

"How does your head feel?" she asked, throwing him off balance when she shifted gears. "It's past time for your medication," she explained, pointing at the clock.

He sat down on the couch and ran his hand through his too short hair. She wasn't going to run. He was sure of that, now. "I'm fine," he said, though now that she'd brought it up, he could feel the pressure of a slight headache beginning to build.

"You shouldn't wait until you're in pain to take something, Booth." She walked toward the kitchen, and he could hear her opening the cupboard and running the faucet. When she walked back into the living room, she sat next to him on the couch and handed him a glass of water. "Here," she said, holding two pills out to him.

Booth groaned. "I don't want to get sleepy," he complained. He hated the way the painkillers made him feel; he wanted to be in control of himself tonight.

"These are ibuprofen," she explained, pressing the pills into his hand. "They won't make you sleepy. Stop being a baby."

He popped the pills into his mouth, following them with half of the glass of water. "Happy," he said, as he placed the glass on the table, pointedly ignoring the baby comment.

"Overjoyed," she dryly replied, as she settled back into the corner of the couch, facing him. She was quiet, thoughtful, and he knew better than to break her concentration with words. He knew she would speak when she was ready.

Instead, he studied her. Her hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail with wavy wisps falling loose to frame her face which had been scrubbed clean of any make up. Her skin glowed. He wondered why she bothered with the stuff when she was so naturally beautiful, and he hoped that, some day, he might get the chance to ask her. She wore lounge pants in a light gray, and a t-shirt to match, making her look, all at once, comfortable, at home, and beautiful. She looked like she belonged on his couch in her comfortable clothes.

"You once told me that, in order to get people to open up, you have to offer something of yourself, first."

His eyes snapped to hers. "I remember," he said. "That was a long time ago."

She smiled and looked down at her lap. "It wasn't that long ago, Booth. Besides, it made an impression on me. *You* make an impression on me." She looked out across the room, chewing on her bottom lip. "You make me want to be human," she admitted.

He started to tell her that she was human, more human than most of the people he knew, but she turned to him, pulling her legs up onto the couch and tucking them up, lotus-style. "You offered up something to me," she continued, "so it's only fair that I reciprocate."

"Okay," he agreed, knowing better than to get in her way when she had that look in her eyes. She was on a mission.

"I've been in relationships before, some of them serious," she began, and he sat back, wondering where she was going with this. "Before we started working together, I was even living with a man. We broke up, badly, before I left for Guatemala. Angela would tell you that I ran to Guatemala and, thinking back on it, I think she was probably right. And you remember Sully."

Brennan sighed and rubbed the back of her neck with her hand. "I think what I'm trying to say here is that I'm not a novice when it comes to relationships with the opposite sex. I've had numerous partners, serious and casual, but none of them, obviously, have lasted very long." She laughed to herself. "Some men think I'm not very easy to get along with."

Booth smiled. "I don't know where anyone would get that idea," he teased, pushing the thoughts of her with 'numerous partners' out of his head.

"All of these men were different in their own ways," Brennan continued, giving him a pointed look and refusing to acknowledge his remark. "But it's how they're all alike that jumps out at me now." She paused, her eyes boring into his. "Not one of them was my friend."

Booth remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

"I'm a scientist," she said, her hands now clasped in her lap. "I observe, collect, and analyze data, and then I draw conclusions based on understood scientific principles. I don't leap to conclusions and I never, ever, go with my gut."

She paused, her gaze locked on her hands, and he wondered if she was waiting for him to say something.

Finally, she said, "When you were in the hospital, I had a lot of time to think."

"Bones." She looked up when he spoke her name, and he could see that she was struggling with this. "You don't have to tell me anything you're not ready to share," he said, reaching out to place a hand on her knee.

She looked down at his hand and, slowly, she placed her hand over his. "I want to," she said, softly. "I need to."

* * *

His hand was warm on her knee and she couldn't help but run her thumb along his wrist as her fingers rested atop his. How many times had she sat in his room, waiting for him to open his eyes, while doing this exact same thing? "I'm not very good at this," she admitted, though she knew he already knew that.

He squeezed her knee and said, "Say what you feel you need to say, Bones. I'm not going to push you, and I'm not going to judge you."

"I was so scared," she blurted, regretting the words as soon as they were out. "I like to be in control of things, and there you were, suffering from something completely out of my control, and all I could do was wait to see if you were going to be okay." She looked up at him and admitted, "I don't like not being in control, Booth."

He smiled and nodded. "I know you don't."

"But," she continued, "I know that not everything is within my control. I'm just usually much better at avoiding those situations. If I can't control it, I remove myself until I can."

"Like Guatemala," he offered.

"Like Guatemala," she agreed. "But I couldn't leave you. I didn't want to. I knew that, no matter what happened, I needed to be there. As terrifying as it was, I couldn't walk away."

His expression softened as she spoke, and it was in a whisper that he said, "Thank you, Bones."

"You would have done the same for me," she replied, reverently. "And I don't know what I could have done to deserve that kind of . . ."

"Devotion?" he offered.

He spoke the word solemnly and the gravity of it nearly overwhelmed her. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose you could call it that."

"I do," he insisted.

"But, you see, that's the point I'm trying to make," she leaned back and looked up at the ceiling, trying to line up her thoughts into some sort of coherent and logical order. "I'm not doing this right, am I?"

"You're doing fine," he assured her. She felt his hand slip from her knee as he leaned back, relaxing into the cushions. Her knee felt cold in its absence.

"I spent a lot of that time thinking, Booth. Thinking about what you mean to me - what we mean to each other. I can't pretend, anymore, that we're just partners. I think we've moved past that. In fact, I think we moved past that a long time ago. We just weren't paying attention." She spoke the words to the ceiling, knowing that she wouldn't be able to get them out if she were looking anywhere else. When she was done, she lowered her head to find him watching her. His face was schooled into the smile that so often infuriated her. The one that told her that he knew something she didn't know.

"I tried to write, to pass the time," she said. "I deleted it all because, really, it was overly emotional, and understandably so. But there was something that I wrote that I've been playing over and over in my mind."

"What's that?" he asked, still holding back, giving her the space she seemed to need.

She closed her eyes and began to recite, "I wrote, '_The thought of losing so much control over personal happiness is unbearable. That's the burden. Like wings, they have weight. We feel that weight on our backs but they are a burden that lifts us, burdens which allow us to fly'._" Speaking the words out loud felt like an actual burden was being lifted, and she exhaled, letting the feeling wash over her.

She opened her eyes and looked directly at him. "I'd like to give flying a try," she said. "I think we'd be good at it."

He tilted his head to the side and looked at her, his expression unreadable, and she instantly regretting saying anything at all. His silence was unnerving. She was debating getting up and running for the door when he finally spoke, "Are you being literal or metaphorical there, Bones, because, and I'm going to be honest with you, I'm not too keen on flying in the literal sense."

She let out a breath and rolled her eyes. He was teasing her! At a moment like this, he was teasing her, and it felt wonderful. "Metaphorical, of course," she huffed.

He reached for her, gently pulling her closer. She unfolded her legs and allowed him to draw her into his arms. As she settled into his embrace, her head resting on his chest, his breath blowing through her hair with each exhale, she realized how lucky they were.

"We shouldn't be here," she said, his heartbeat thrumming steadily under her ear.

"Why do you say that," he asked as his arms formed a protective cocoon around her.

"Statistically speaking," and she heard him groan, but she continued on, "you've been shot, blown up, and kidnapped several times, and so have I. Not even taking into account your most recent trip to the hospital, the odds are astronomically against both of us surviving in order to make it to this place in time."

"I prefer to think of it a little differently," he said before placing a gentle kiss on the top of her head. "I think we were meant to make it through all of that so, when we did make it to this time and place, we'd be all the more thankful for what we have."

She considered this for a moment before shifting away so she could look up at him. He was smiling, his eyes bright and clear, the only overt evidence that he'd recently had brain surgery was the uneven cut of his rapidly growing hair. "You think so?" she asked.

"I do," he answered. And then he was kissing her.

They'd kissed before, under the mistletoe, and it was supposed to be a means to an end, a way for her to be able to let her family have a decent Christmas. It had been, undeniably, arousing, although she couldn't admit that at the time. This time, however, there wasn't a puckish district attorney counting out steamboats. This was the real deal.

The kiss was slow, languid, sexy, and promising, and when he released her, placing a warm kiss on her forehead before guiding her head back to his chest, she sighed, knowing that when the time was right, the next step was going to be smoldering.

"What do we do now," she asked, and she knew that he would know exactly what she meant. What did this mean for their working relationship? How fast or slow should they take things? Would they tell their friends or keep it a secret?

"One day at a time, Bones," he whispered. "One day at a time."

And that was good enough for her.

**End**


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